


Please Don't Stop the Music

by Cinderscream



Series: No Evil au [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dont trust dark, Dr iplier is tired, Ominous ending is ominous, Poor bop, Thats obvious, The host has Concerns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12243147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: Mark gets sick, the egos get sick, and one never signs up to be Dark's target





	Please Don't Stop the Music

**Author's Note:**

> The start of a series i plan to spread around october, just for funsies

Bop is sure that between the bright, sticky rays of sunlight piercing through his blinds and into his eyes and Bing barging into his room, wild-eyed and panicked, door slamming shut behind him loud enough to wake the rest of the building, he should feel more awake than he does. The world is blurred around the edges though that might be due to his lack of contacts, and the light’s making his head throb, just slightly off-beat from his heart. Bop groans and Bing, who’d been pacing and rambling a mile a minute (a whole conversation that Bop had missed), stops, body going unnaturally still. He’s vaguely reminded that Bing isn’t human. 

 

“Nah, bro, not you too”, he moans, running a hand through his messy hair. 

 

“Wha-?” Bop croaks.

 

He blinks sleepily, scrunching his nose as a harsh sneeze ripples through his frame. Bing buries his face in his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he looks up, Bop’s face is still flushed, his dark hair falling limply into his tired face, the dark circles under his eyes the only spots of color on his unnaturally pale face besides the spots of red high on his cheeks. A sharp exhale leaves him mouth. 

 

“Mark, uh, got back from a con last night”, says Bing, “and apparently he caught something.”

 

Bop’s mind is slow to process the information, but Bing lets him come to his own conclusion. 

 

Oh.  

 

Mark is sick. His illnesses tend to, on occasion, affect his egos. Bop makes the connection as he sneezes once more into his elbow. 

 

“How many?” Bop asks, voice thick. 

 

Bing runs his hand through hair again, lips pursing. 

 

“That’s the thing, there’s  _ three  _ sick. Three! No surprise that Trimmer got sick, everyone saw that coming, but  _ you _ ? And get this bro-” 

 

Here, Bing stops his anxious pacing and plops onto the bed next to Bop and shuffles closer. His voice in conspiratorial when he speaks, oddly quiet but with unrestrained bewilderment. 

 

“ _ Dark  _ got sick  _ too _ .” Bing’s eyebrows have risen to meet his hairline and his glasses slip down his nose to reveal his confused golden eyes. The news is bizarre enough to pierce through the fog in Bop’s mind. 

 

It’s… Bop hasn’t been around long enough to know when had been the last time Dark had gotten sick, but he figures it can’t have been recent. He doesn’t get much time to ponder it longer because his door’s swinging open again and Dr. Iplier’s striding inside, a surgical mask placed firmly over his mouth and nose. His eyes latch onto Bop (curled up in a cocoon of blankets, trembling, and looking terribly disheveled). Dr. Iplier supposed he could attribute the last one the early hour, but he can't ignore the rest of the symptoms. 

 

He turns a sharp eye on Bing, narrowing his eyes and inspecting him like a child might a green on their plate. 

 

“How’d I know you’d be here? No matter, get out”, he says, shooing Bing away with his hands. Bing scoffs in indignation. 

 

“What? No!”

 

Dr. Iplier sighs, rubbing at his throbbing temples.  

 

“He’s got something contagious, leave before you’re infected too.”

 

It’s obvious Dr. Iplier is running thin on patience, but Bing doesn’t want to leave his friend and pushes his luck. 

 

“Doc, it’s fine, I’m a ‘droid. You let ‘ol Oliver stay with Trimmer!” Bing says, determined to stay. Dr. Iplier isn’t having it. 

 

He slips into the room, giving Bop a wide berth and grabbing Bing by his bicep in a surprisingly strong grip. Bing is dragged, unceremoniously, out of Bops room, his protests ignored. 

 

“You aren’t a complete model and your virus protection isn’t fully implemented. You run just as much risk of being infected as any of the rest of us.” His tone softens, just a bit. “I don’t think Bop would appreciate you getting sick as well.”

 

Bing deflates, mouth pulling into a frown and though Dr. Iplier can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, he’s sure they’re fixed on Bops door. 

 

“He’ll be fine, I promise”, Dr. Iplier assures him, tone gentle in a way reserved for Bim or the Host. 

 

Bing nods, just slightly despondent, and shuffles away, shooting occasional glances over his shoulder until he disappears from sight. Dr. Iplier exhales, just slightly, his shoulders drooping. He turns back to Bop’s room and slowly makes his way in. Bop’s gone back to hiding under the covers, dark strands of greasy hair peeking out from beneath the dark blue blanket. He sighs again, knows he’s been doing that quite a bit and knows he’s going to be doing it for a while more. It’s not the Host on a bad day, at least.

…

Moving Bop to the new room for monitoring is not as big an ordeal as he’d feared, even with Bop so out of it. Google offers his assestace (though Dr. Iplier supposes it’s more per request of the Host and Dark than an actual need to help). They settle him into a bed in what is usually Blue's room, a sleek and minimalist space with pale blue walls and a shelf of books that Dr. Iplier knows are a mix of fantasy and whatever copies of the Host's works that Blue likes the most.

 

Next to it was a small, comfortable looking couch, a deep maroon that clashes slightly with the walls. Two beds had been moved in, one neat and freshly made, the other occupied by Dark, his aura squirming like a malicious shadow around him. He doesn't look at them when they enter, eyes glued to the book in his hands. He's down to a loose white shirt and though he appears unkempt (hair unruly, clothing rumpled) one could almost call it purposeful if not for the strained lines around his eyes.

 

Dark was not one to be accustomed to sickness. 

 

They settle Bop into the other bed and he falls immediately into a fitful doze, curling up tight around his pillow. Once that’s done Blue leaves, and Dr. Iplier knows better than to expect him to return. He’d said he’d stay with the Host until Dark and Bop got better and then retake his room. Bim, whose symptoms Dr. Iplier found to be more severe, is in the next room over under Oliver’s watchful eyes. He hadn’t been sure about leaving Bop with Dark, but it’s not like Bop can do anything that would be of use to Dark, who, after all, is weakened by illness. Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to leave them, doesn’t feel right leaving someone as vulnerable as Bop alone with Dark, but he has little choice. The Googles are the only ones who’d be able to help keep an eye on them without succumbing to illness and only Oliver’s offered his services. He can’t force Orville, Oxnard, or Blue to help if they don’t want to, not without making them hate him. 

 

He has to go, it’s nearly time for his appointment with the Host to change his bandage. He shoots Dark and Bop one more hesitant glance and slips out of the room, his white coat swishing silently behind him. 

…

Dark isn't particularly thrilled to be roomed with Bing’s noisy friend, but he can tolerate it if he's quiet. He’d been hoping to room with Bim; there were things he wanted to try that, even with his weakened powers, could have garnered some interesting results. But of course, Bim is a bit of gamble with how unstable he is so Dark supposes he can wait until he’s returned to full strength. 

 

Night had come oddly quick in between bouts of fitful dozes and hazy attempts to read. Bop had been silent the entire time, alternating between listening to music Bing had brought him (on a small ipod with earphones and not his obnoxious, outdated boom box, thankfully). Bop didn’t speak, barely spared him a glance and fell asleep early with his back turned to him. None of this bothered Dark of course, Bop meant nothing to him.

 

If anything, it was amusing.

 

He glances down at the book in his lap, a rather thick volume about the poor of France. The words blur in the darkness of the night, only the pale rays of the moon to illuminate the tiny words. Dark rubs his eyes and sets the book down. He settles against his pillows, suppressing a cough and grabbing a tissue to clear his running nose. Hatred burns in his veins for Mark’s awful immune system. It's one of those rare times where he actually wants to sleep and he  _ can’t _ . Dark shoots a look to where Bop shivers from under his blankets in an uneasy sleep, and for one possibly insane moment, he envies him. 

 

Dark is quick to shake it off, scoffing. Envious of a useless ego, as if. 

 

But he’s bored and curious and reading has lost its charm. His shadows are hissing around him, little whispers that implore him for release, for something to taint, if just a little. Dark’s current  _ project _ isn’t around for him to fiddle with, unfortunately… but. His eyes land on Bop again, now intrigued. Dark is no scientist, but the effect of his powers on others had alway been an interesting subject, the way they corrupted and consumed and warped those they touched nearly beyond recognition. 

 

He has a single tendril slither away, little more than a drop of his power and hardly enough to register to anyone with the exception of the Host. And perhaps Yandere.

 

The tendril caresses him, hardly more than a trickle on Bop’s sweaty forehead. He snuffles, but otherwise doesn’t react. Dark glances at the clock on the wall, the hands reading 2:45. He keeps his expression neutral, but his dark eyes gleam with excitement. His has all night to experiment. 

…

There’s a soft melody echoing in his ear, a solid high tune ringing behind it and a growing  _ ache _ in his chest. He scrabbles at the side of his head, looking for earbuds to pull out and finds nothing, the melody quieting and the high tune rising. The ache in his chest deepens and he clutches helplessly at it, trying to rub the pain away. 

 

He whimpers and the melody turns mocking, an echo laughing at his patheticness and the high tune stabs into his head, a spear of  _ sharpsharp  _ noise that drives itself in with a vengeance. The ache turns into the feeling of a knife plunging into his core and then being ripped out and jabbed back in. He opens his mouth to scream but no noise comes out and he writhes in his tangle of sheets, clawing furiously at his bare chest  _ anything  _ to stop the agony growing in his chest. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and the melody heightens, more scream than music now.

 

He can pick up a voice, smooth and deep, familiar in a way he can’t understand. It’s mocking him too, laughing at how powerless he is. The voice is singing, siren-sweet and so very terrible. It fills the air around him, a physical mass that chokes his lungs and invades from his mouth and nose and scratches at his skin like sandpaper. There’s tears streaming from his eyes but he can’t cry out and the voice keeps singing and laughing  _ and it won’t stop and he can’t breathe he’s gasping but nothing comes, the noise is screeching in his ears like a train whistle- _

 

Something in him  _ snaps _ and the sound is  _ gone _ . The voice disappears but the crashing waves of pain remain and he  _ can’t hear anything why can’t he hear anything? _

 

He wants this to stop. He wants to be left alone. He dredges up the remnants of his strength, searches for the timbre of that awful and beautiful voice and  _ screams.  _

 

“ _ STOP”,  _ he roars, voice raw and deep, deeper than he’s ever gone, an echoing reverb that does not belong to him whirling around him. 

 

And the darkness stops. 

…

Everything seems to stop. 

 

Dark stares, wide-eyed, at the trembling, sobbing  _ child _ of an ego, nothing compared to his ancient roots. He’d mimicked his voice to a tee, not just the empty husk of sound, but the  _ power of it, the power to stop his shadows and.  _

 

He cocks his head. Bop had imitated his voice  _ and  _ his power. 

 

He’s… curious, to say the least. Dark thinks of the Host, with the power to manipulate and warp and predict and Bim whose power mirrors Wilford’s in far more unpredictable ways. A sound manipulator who can mimic the power of his voice? Dark wonders if perhaps he could mimic the power of others as well. 

 

But. Bop’s never done this before. Dark narrows his eyes and stifles a cough into his fist, thoughts awhirl. His aura swims around him, dark and foreboding. It’s possible that the stress of Dark’s powers had brought forth an ability Bop hadn’t even been aware he had, he was a new ego and quite a few of them had  _ interesting _ reactions to his aura. His thoughts flicker briefly to Yan, the way he seemed to draw his aura in rather than shrink away. 

 

In the other bed, Bop squirms, hands clasped tightly over his ears and murmuring and wheezing, interspersed with harsh coughing into his blankets. Dark wonders how long it’ll take for Dr. Iplier to come check on him. 

 

He’d only used a little over a fraction of his power, too weakened by his obnoxious illness to use more and highly doubting he’d be able to handle much more of it. Dark’s need to experiment’s been piqued though so he sends another tendril infused with his aura, pokes Bops bare chest with it (red and covered in scratches from his own blunt nails). The younger ego hisses. 

 

“ _ Stop”,  _ he says again, but even though it’s still in Dark’s voice (and it manages to make his shadows flinch), it’s little more than a rasp. 

 

Dark hums and is unable to stop another coughing fit from rattling in his lungs. He decides to pursue this at a later time when his strength is recovered and he can examine the results better. He pulls up his covers and settles in for the night. 

…

Bop doesn’t look any better the next morning. Dr. Iplier eyes him critically and resists shooting Dark an accusatory look. Dark’s almost completely healed, down to little more than sniffles and the occasional sneeze. His fever’s gone and Dr. Iplier has deemed him fine to go as long as he takes it easy. Even Bim, whose illness tended to last  as long as Mark’s, had improved overnight. Bop’s fever burns on and he doesn’t respond to any of his prodding, verbal or physical. 

 

And Bing refuses to leave him alone. 

 

He’d been furious when he found out Bop had been put in the same room as Dark, had insisted he be moved out and had come to visit as often as possible to keep an eye on things. He had also declared that Dark was the reason Bop hadn’t been able to get better. Dr. Iplier has his theories (tries not the think of the Host), but tries to convince Bing that Dark likely had nothing to do with it. He isn’t so sure when he sees the scratch marks all over Bop’s chest, he small clumps of hair that he’d pulled from his head. He doesn’t tell Bing about those. 

 

He feels his heart stutter just slightly when he finds traces of blood in Bop’s ears. 

 

“Did you see it?” comes a voice from the doorway and Dr. Iplier nearly jumps into the air in fright. 

 

He turns away from his patient to find the Host in the doorway (bandages soaked and cheeks heavily streaked with crimson), mouth set in a thin, grim line. Dr. Iplier thinks back to the vague vision he’d had about Bop and music, looks to the Host’s face and to the numbers stretching infinitely above Bop’s head. News Jim hadn’t said anything about anyone dying, but Dr. Iplier knows that’s not the worst thing that could happen to an ego. 

 

“I saw… something”, he says, Bop’s dull eyes flicking in his head. 

 

The Host shuffles in, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket and rubbing away the blood on his face, only to have more replace it. He crinkles his nose at it and replaces the handkerchief back into his coat pocket. 

 

“I don’t have very long, my vision came to me last night and I can  _ feel  _ Dark’s aura seeking me out.” 

 

“Was… was it bad?” Dr. Iplier asks, wincing at the flat look the Host gives him, blood dripping onto the collar of his shirt. 

 

“You must warn him. Once Dark sets his sights on someone”, he quiets. 

 

Dr. Iplier is sure he’s  _ this close  _ to slipping into third person. 

 

“He is relentless”, Dr. Iplier finishes, eyes darting to Bop’s prone form. 

 

The Host nods. One hand comes up to rub at his temple and Dr. Iplier offers to change his bandage again. The Host smiles, thin-lipped, but accepts. He leaves with fresh new bandages and an impending sense of dread. 

 

Dr. Iplier runs a hand down his face, exhaustion dripping from his skin. 

…

Consciousness comes to him molasses slow. He blinks his eyes open, groans at the sting of sleep that clings to them. His chest  _ burns _ with a low fire that scorches at his lungs and his throat feels too thick. There’s a slight buzz in his ears and there’s a melody in his head that’s too faint for him to catch and it fades as he rubs the drowsiness from his eyes. 

 

Bop frowns at the sheets clinging to his skin with sweat and pushes them off, ignoring the chill that raises goosebumps on his arms. Deja vu washes over him when Bing slams the door open (and he realizes now that this is not his room) and starts pacing, hands tangling in his hair. 

 

“Bing? I, uh, where am I?” Bop asks, looking around the unfamiliar room trying to grasp whose it is from the pale blue walls. He has a very vague memory of being moved, but was too out of it to really remember much. 

 

Bing hesitates, pausing at the foot of the bed and not looking him in the eye. Possibly. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses. 

 

“Um, Doc had to move you to Blue’s room with  _ Dark  _ while you recovered. Of course antique with legs recovered first.”

 

His voice holds a sort of venom when he says Dark’s name and Bop shudders at the thought of being in the same room as him. Distantly he remembers deep red eyes glancing at him from the other bed, not particularly interested. Being in Blue’s room bothers him a little less, though it does make him eye the walls suspiciously. 

 

“Are you alright, dude? You seem kinda quiet”, Bing says, his own voice unusually soft. 

 

“Just tired”, Bop responds, swallowing to soothe the roughness in his throat. 

 

Bing pours water into the glass on his bedside table from a pitcher Bop hadn’t seen. He’s warned to drink it slow and can’t help the sigh of relief when the cool liquid runs down his achy throat. 

 

“I’ll leave, then, just came to give you your spare ipod”, Bing mutters, handing over the small device from his clenched fist. 

 

Bop smiles at him, small but thankful and his fingers linger against  Bop’s hand as he takes the ipod from his palm. Bing pauses in the doorway, his mouth set in a thin line. 

 

“Get better bro”, he says before leaving, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

 

Bop slumps back into the bed, replacing his old ipod with the new one. The first song is a peppy one with a repetitive chorus about finding happiness within one’s self. It’s catchy and bright and it makes Bop feel better. It fades, for just a second, to be replaced by a faint buzz, and comes back before he can really register it. Bop takes out one earbud and then the other, puzzled. They both look fine and he slips them back into his ears. The song goes on uninterrupted. 

 

The next song is not quite as happy. The singer's voice is cold, a careless caress against his skin. She sings about love like she’s mocking it, warbles about cold eyes and distant smiles and while her voice is beautiful, Bop isn’t in the mood for it. He skips the song. It’s another fast one, energetic with a hint of violin, a sharp voice calling for revolution. Bop taps his fingers to the beat, humming along with the tune of the man’s whip-quick voice. He forgets about the static of the first song, too engrossed in the music filling the silence. 

 

It returns on the tenth song. 

 

It’s slow and calm, the singer’s delicate voice belting out a plea to be left alone by the darkness following her. It’s a jarring contrast, the melody flowing along like clear stream while the singer cries in almost agony to stop, stop leave her be and it stirs something in him, a faint memory of what felt like a white hot metal stabbing into his ears and chest. Bop wants to change the song, but something keeps him from doing so, his thumb frozen on the skip button. And then her voice fades, static filling his ears, a deep sense of  _ wrongness _ filling in his chest, something that feels like drowning. There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t clear and  _ no he can’t breath what’s going on he thought it was a dream _

 

The song ends. 

 

Bop tears the earbuds away, nearly throws the ipod against the wall in an effort to get away from it. His breath comes short and shallow, and there’s an after echo that won’t go away. He barely notices the tears tracking on his cheeks, too busy trying to control the coughing fit that hits him hard and heavy. He reaches a hand up to rub his ears and his eyes widen when they come away wet. His fingers glisten red.

 

“Oh”, he says. He can’t hear his voice. 

…

“What did you see.”

 

The Host doesn’t turn away from the window, though the voice from behind (rough from recent illness) calls him to. It’s sunny outside, a contrast to the cool shadows of his library and he soaks in the warmth. 

 

“He’ll suffer.”

 

He rubs more blood away from his face, relieved when it isn’t immediately replaced by more. He’d been having a lot more Bad visions recently and it was hard to keep everything from being stained. There’s a hum of acknowledgement. 

 

“But… he would make a handy addition”, he says after a stretch of silence. 

 

Dark’s hand lands soft and familiar on the nape of his neck, his breath cold against his ear. His shadows whisper around him, snickering little wisps that curl around his wrists like physical manacles. He imagines what Dark might take from Bop, his eyes aching with a phantom pain. 

  
Something like pity pangs in his chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Boy i cant wait for the next part


End file.
